


Complications

by Moonsheen



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Circle Mage Angst, Ensemble Cast, F/M, Pregnancy, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-07 00:29:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3154064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonsheen/pseuds/Moonsheen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While preparing for the invasion of the Arbor Wilds, Inquisitor Trevelyan finds herself in a delicate situation. Fortunately, Circle Mages have a script for these situations. Unfortunately, Circle Mages are also bad at telling people things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Complications

**Author's Note:**

> So, uh. I wrote this originally as a fill for the Dragon Age: Inquisition kinkmeme. I got about 3K into this fill before realizing that I'd accidentally used the wrong Inquisitor. Fortunately the original requester has someone to fill this with the CORRECT INQUISITOR. Unfortunately I was left with a homeless 5k story about a knocked up former Circle Mage. Prompt was Inquisitor/Love Interest, pregnancy, and working relationships. ABANDON ALL HOPE YE WHO ENTER.

It was the Iron Bull who noticed first, Trevelyan suspects. She remembers his studied gaze, the night she tried to tip a glass to victory and wound up gagging from the smell alone.

“Oh, that's—aaa-ha. Bracing. No head for it tonight, I think,” she said. She pushed to her feet. She held the corner of the table, and tried not to look too faint. “I'm calling a council in the morning. Try not to think less of me, would you?”

There were jeers. There was laughter. But really, at that point, most everyone was too drunk to care.

“I think there is plenty more to go around,” said the Bull, his tone was light, but his gaze was unblinking. “But while we're feeling delicate, does the boss want a bubble bath? Maybe a foot rub?”  
  
“No, thanks,” she said. She laughed at the time.

 

But then perhaps it was Leliana. Who else could have left her that book? Who else could have delivered it to her such a fashion? A volume of herbal remedies, poised precariously at the corner of the desk on the second level of the tower: it sat just where her hand hovered at the desk, whenever she spoke with Helisma. One nervous flick of her fingers, and it fell over the side.

“Oh, damn,” she said, when the book fell. “Did you need this?”

The Tranquil stared at her. “No,” said Helisma, who went back to sorting through the teeth Trevelyan had given her.

Trevelyan to place the book back on its shelf. It had fallen open on a page with a pipe shaped flower.

'Birthwort,' it said, in elegant illuminations.

Trevelyan placed it back on the shelf. She did not look for it again.

 

 

But then, perhaps it was neither. She considers it. She considers it a great deal. She recalls one late night creeping back from the battlements: the long shadow on the wall and the whisper in her ear, like a ghost, or a memory. The hall was empty. Empty, quiet, towers, hallowed ground, empty, unforgiven, blood, pain. Whatever you wish, I will accept it, but please, won't you smile again?

And Trevelyan stopped, her hand twisted in her nightshirt, gripped by thoughts and feelings not quite her own.

“... that's enough,” she said, gently, because the shadow was trying to be kind. She held out her hand. Maybe she gave someone else's hand a squeeze, maybe she didn't. “You've made your point.”

Then the shadow was gone. If it ever had its own opinion on the subject, Trevelyan didn't quite recall. There was a warm cup of tea by her bed the next morning. The type meant to quell nausea. No one remembered bringing it to her.

 

 

But in the end, it hardly matters who knew first. It's the Witch who sells her out, with one sideways glance.

“These things have power in them,” says Morrigan, in that whisper that sets the room ablaze. “I would know. And I know how that power can be twisted against you. I do believe you've had your reasons. In the normal way, I would respect them – but at so critical a moment, can you really leave such things to chance?”

“I'm sorry,” says Josephine, “I believe I may be misunderstanding the topic of conversation. Just ...what are we leaving to chance?”

At which point the Inquisitor turns red and storms out of her own war room and oh, it's quite a mess after that.

 

 

She reports to Mother Griselle herself, before the rumors start to fly.

Varric, thankfully, has intercepted Cassandra somewhere en route from the training grounds. Josephine is a quieter companion.

But just barely.

“Ah, well. We can work with this,” says Josephine, scraping her clipboard with a quill. She's run out of ink. She hasn't figured this out yet. She isn't even looking at it. She stabs it two times. “This is – ah, well, it is a complication. But it is not insurmountable. Many much more public figures have dealt with.....situations like this with grace and aplomb and pretend bouts of dropsy! Of course, vanishing to a health spa is out of the question – ah, but we will think of something. Fortunately this is so out of the bounds of anyone's consideration I imagine it is hardly on anyone's mind. Besides yours. And now mine. And ...ah, how are you feeling?”

“I'm fine, Josephine.” Somehow it is the Inquisitor squeezing the ambassador's arm in reassurance.  
  
“Excellent,” said Josephine, with a wide, strained smile, “Excellent. It is good that you are healthy. And let us see if we can fetch some new armor commissions. In honor of your ...very good health?”

In the corner of the room, Leliana hums quietly under her breath. Some old Chantry hymn, meant to steel ones nerves.

“I appreciate your concern,” says the Inquisitor, “But I'd like some fresh air.”

She shoves her way out of the room. She escapes towards the light of the garden. She nearly crashes into the commander pacing out on the walkway. He jolts at her sudden proximity. He goes through all the motions. Hand on sword. Hand at side. Hand hovering, uncertain.

“Inquisitor,” he says, with automatic formality. He looks stiff and vaguely ill, like a man who woke in a cold sweat. Which was probably exactly what happened. Skyhold's mages received a questionable shipment of lyrium the previous night. He'd supervised the investigation. This morning, he stares at her as though she's grown another head.

Which is not, she supposes, wholly inaccurate.

“Commander,” she says. “Another time.”

Whether it's relief or resentment that compels him to obey that terse order, the Inquisitor doesn't confirm.

 

 

She retires to her quarters for the rest of the morning. Varric has a list of children's names sent to her quarters by noon, each more floral and sickening than the last. She shakes her head, but cracks a smile. At least someone has a sense of humor about the situation.

 

 

“Little people,” says Sera. “Little people and littler people. Someone's jumped the fence, eh? They can't go blaming me for _that_.”

“Not you too, Sera.” Trevelyan practically falls on the lacy stolen cushions. “I swear, it's like the entirety of Skyhold's upper echelons have forgotten how to speak to me.”

“It's 'cause none of 'em have a thingy growing in them,” said Sera. “It's icky, and weird, and I'm glad that'll never be me.”

  
“If it was they ought to call _you_ the Herald of Andraste,” says Trevelyan, “That'd be a real miracle.”

“Noooo thanks,” says Sera, waving her hands as though to bat the very idea from existence. She pauses, though, “Makes your tits look fab, though.”

  
Trevelyan looks up slowly. She can't recall when she put her head in her hands. “Thank you.”  
  
“You're welcome,” says Sera, with an authoritative nod.

 

 

“Sit,” says Cassandra, with that air of finality that she wears like a cloak.

Trevelyan makes for the barrel by the wall.

Cassandra scowled. “No, actually. Stand. I hear that is better for the extremities.”

Trevelyan pauses. “Shall I wait for your decision?”

Cassandra sighs and takes another hack at the practice dummy. “I am not familiar with these matters.”

“That makes two of us.” Trevelyan takes a seat after all. She has always liked watching Cassandra practice. She moves with ease and vicious economy.

“No. What I mean to say is, these are matters I have actively avoided speaking of since I was at an age when it might have been even a possibility.” Cassandra rams the dummy with a particularly powerful charge. “You are from the Circle, so I cannot imagine it was like this for you, but when there are inheritances to be considered you will find everyone is suddenly very interested in the state of your womb. No matter what you have in mind to do with it.”

“... I would not say it is wholly different,” says Trevelyan, “In the Circle, that is.”

“Hmph.” Cassandra pauses in her evisceration of her imaginary foe. “Well. It may not be a topic either of us is fond of, but know I will support you in this, no matter how unpleasant it is.”

Trevelyan can't help herself. She leans forward just slightly. “You will claim responsibility for my...predicament?”

Cassandra flusters. Her next blow falls a bit off kilter. “I did not say _that_ ,” she says. “And I have half a mind to gut the one who is! But that would leave us shorthanded. And the Inquisition is not secure that we could afford such a gap in our ranks. A pity. I did expect better from him.”

“I'm a mage,” says Trevelyan. “If you're worried about my honor, I promise you most would say I never had it to begin with.”

A shadow blocks the sun. Cassandra has whirled on her heel. She looms over the Inquisitor now, glaring.

“Do not say _that_. No else would _dare_. You are the leader of the Inquisition,” says Cassandra, with that brave earnestness which has always bowled Trevelyan over with its power. Then, her jaw softens. She asks, with more care: “Have you _spoken_ to him, at least?”

“I will,” promises Trevelyan.

“Do it soon,” says Cassandra. “Before his pacing drives me insane, and I make him come to _you_.”

 

 

In the war room, she has her ambassador prepare an envoy to Serault. She has her spymaster to send agents to Val Royeaux. It will take a little longer, to prepare the invasion of the Arbor Wilds. The Witch watches all of this with a dry twist of her lips, and no more sudden pronouncements end the meeting early. It's almost as though things have leveled out, until they leave, and the Inquisitor takes an extra step to keep pace with the commander as he steps out into the hall.  
  
“There's a matter I'd like to discuss with you,” she murmurs, “Could we speak? In the garden?”

“The garden?” he asks as though they have not spoken in years, as though they had not had a conversation about moving soldiers not ten minutes ago.

“Yes,” she says, “It's been some time since we have had a game.”

 

 

They sit across from one another in the garden, moving pieces across the board. He loses the first game. Whether it's a consequence of lyrium withdrawal, insomnia, or something else on his mind, it's hard to say.

“I've spoken with Solas,” says the Inquisitor, on her turn.“He looked like he'd swallowed a nail, but he believes there are certainly some talismans that might prevent any of the nastier blood rites a Venatori might try. Provided they are even aware of the situation. Which Leliana says is unlikely. It's...not something much on our enemy's minds. There are some advantages to being a symbol of divine will.”

“...that is a relief,” says her commander. It's his turn. He sighs, and pushes a piece without really looking at it. His tone is measured and careful, though she notices the slight dip in his voice, as he struggles to keep his words professional.“More than a relief. Still. I wish you'd told us sooner. We are your advisors. Our purpose is to serve the Inquisition to the best of our ability – and that means serving you. Why didn't you tell us?”

That's the question the Inquisitor has answered twice already.

“I haven't known long myself,” she admits. “I didn't know how to bring it up. There's not exactly protocol for it.”

On her next move she captures one of his pieces. He barely notices.

“No,” he mutters. “Let me rephrase that.”

“Hm?”

Cullen meets her eyes for the first time since the start of the game.

“Why didn't you tell _me_?”

“Ah.” That's the question Trevelyan has prepared for. She steels herself, and answers: “...truth be told, I was afraid.”

“Afraid?”  
  
“Yes. I thought the news might give you...pause. I've thought of what's to come. I've thought a lot about the siege of the Adamant. And the raid on the Shrine of Dumat. And of Haven. And everything I've asked of you, since the beginning. The decisions I make. The decisions I ask you to make.... I know how heavy it all is. I didn't want to give you another reason to second-guess yourself.”

He moves another piece. “You thought I'd hesitate.”

“I thought it was possibility.” Trevelyan captures it. “Forgive me.”

He counters. “... that's a kind lie,” he says. “Check.”

“What?”

She's maneuvered right into his trap. She tries her best on the next turn, but she's extended her reach too far, and victory would now be hard won, if at all possible. In the normal way, he might have grinned as she stared up and down the board in sudden alarm. Now, he leans into his hands. He watches her deliberate on this sudden change of fortune. There isn't a sign of a tremor in his fingers.

“I am the commander of the Inquisitions military forces,” he says, quietly. “A position I have already once tried to be relieved from. But you and Cassandra have both placed your faith in my abilities, I will serve to the best of them.”

“And that ability is considerable,” says the Inquisitor. “Cassandra and I both agree--”

But Cullen holds up a hand. He's not done.

“I've told you that I could not bear to see you harmed. That I am most comforted when you at my side,” he says, and despite the fierce tenderness in those words he keeps himself steeled, as though delivering that morning's tactical report. Clear. Factual. “But to keep that reality, I cannot fail you. I will not fail you. When you order me to hold the line while you throw yourself into danger, I will not hesitate. If you ask me to send you into a living hell for something you believe to your core to be right, as your commander I will carry out your instructions to the absolute letter. As your commander I will see it through. As a man it kills me. I'd despise myself if I allowed any harm to come to you, but if you lead I will follow. And you know this. You know this better than anyone else in Skyhold. You were afraid of something, I'll grant you. But it wasn't that.”

And there it is, plain and simple. It's so very Ferelden. His eyes don't waver, even as she sees the faint twinge in his mouth: hurt. Not from the past, but the present.

“Cullen,” says Trevelyan, “It's not...”

“Have I given you cause to doubt me?”

He's genuinely asking. Trevelyan takes a deep breath, and dejectedly moves another piece across the board.

“It's unavoidable then,” she murmurs. “Very well. The truth. At Ostwick Circle, one of the young force mages I trained with fell pregnant in her eighteenth year.”

Cullen's eyes go blank and miserable. The way they always have when they speak of life within the Circle. “...I see.”

“Her name was Pia. She wasn't a bad girl. She was a wonderful person, actually. Always grinning about something. Truly. It wasn't some face she put on. She wasn't especially pretty, or even that talented a mage, but she was so ...bippy she could just make your teeth ache. She'd come from some poor river village in the Free Marches. She considered the Circle a good roof over her head. She got on with everyone. She joked she'd come for the food. Even the templars were never that stern with her. They never had to be.”

A muscle moves in his jaw, just slightly. “So, then, you think they--”

“I don't know,” says Trevelyan, because she knows where his mind sometimes goes and it's a place too awful for her to let him pursue without cause. “Maybe. Maybe not. There were plenty of suspects. I know she had a lot of admirers among us mages. She wasn't good at discretion. I couldn't really keep track of them. It could've been any of them. She liked _everyone_. It was sort of a wonder it didn't happen sooner, in retrospect. I _do_ know the child was born that winter. A girl, I think. Can't recall. The templars took it away, of course. Off to one of those orphanages.”

Trevelyan sighs. There's no saving this particular game. She tips over her king, and moves to reset the board. Cullen lets her, quiet and very pale.

Still, Trevelyan continues. The dam holding the memory has broken, and now it simply flows: “Pia said it wasn't such a bother. The Circle wasn't a place for infants, after all. Less work for her, she said. She tried to go on the way she'd been before, laughing, friendly. But one morning she missed morning call. I found her curled up in the undercroft. Turns out, they'd taken it before she'd even gotten to hold it. They said she'd miss it less. She asked me pretend I hadn't seen her, and left. She concentrated on her studies from then on. I don't remember ever seeing her smile again. She transferred a few years after that.”

How odd, thinks Trevelyan. Somehow this story seemed longer when she'd started it.

“Now,” says Cullen, finally rousing from whatever distant horror has taken up residence in his head. He leans forward, over the chess table. “Surely--”

“Don't tell me that it didn't happen like that,” says Trevelyan, startled at the sudden strength in her voice. He freezes. “Please. Don't tell me I misunderstood the situation. Don't tell me the templars didn't do things like that.”

“No,” says Cullen, with a bitter twinge in his lips. “I wasn't. I wouldn't. It probably happened exactly like you said. In Kirkwall, I signed off on a few of those placements myself. They weren't that rare. General procedure dictated that the child be removed from the Circle as soon as possible. It was seen as less ...damaging for mother and child.”

“Less damaging, or easier for you?”

“Both,” says Cullen, blankly. “In my old life, I would have considered it a kindness. … Oh, Maker. I _have_ given you cause to doubt me.”

He sits back. He looks at her, then away.

“I don't doubt you,” she says.

“You have every reason to.”

“I don't.”

“Then why--” he catches himself. “No. You have already answered that. Your fears are not unjustified. For over ten years, I was exactly what you were afraid of.”

“And for my whole lifetime I have been what you were afraid of.”

He manages a thin smile. “You're no abomination.”

“No, but could you always see the difference?”

He breathes in sharply. It's Trevelyan's turn to lean over the table. She reaches for his hand. It's still resting next to the board, tense. His knuckles jump under her touch. She eases her her fingers over them carefully. Sometimes he is terrified of touch. She keeps it light, so he knows he can escape from it if need be.

“Old fears,” she murmurs, “Old ideas. You're not the only one who fights them, Cullen. Forget what you would have done. What would you do now?”

“In better times, I would suggest sending the child to my sister in South Reach. Just until the war was over,” he adds this last part quickly. “But with how things are, Skyhold might be the most secure options. Arrangements could be made. Nurses or tutors.”

“Tutors?”

“Depending on how long this drags on,” says Cullen, rubbing the back of his neck. “My parents were always insistent on a good education. For all of us. Reading, writing, a little music.”

“Not dancing, though.”

She startles a laugh out of him. “Well, I learned history and mathematics in the Order. Among other topics. But I think tutors could be found for those subjects. Tutors less... weighted in old ideas. And old fears.”

His smile fades.

“And if the child required an education in magic?” she asks. She has to.

“I did think of that.” He sighs. “I still believe that Circles did provide the most thorough education in magic and its uses. But there are no Circles anymore. Who knows when, or if, anything like them will be restored. And even if they were... reforms are necessary. It should not be the way it was before. The Order liked to scare us with stories of hedge mages, but I did once know a young woman who received her education primarily from her father. He was an escaped Circle mage. She may have been raised an apostate, but she was well trained. She passed her Harrowing without incident. It's not as impossible as I used to think. We could find a teacher, if your duties make it difficult to provide lessons yourself....”

That last part is hesitant. His free hand slides from the back of his neck back to the chess table, where his fingers hold the edge.

“...with your permission, of course,” he adds.

She stares. “You have really thought of it.”

He shrugs a bit helplessly. “Not enough, it seems,” he says, “... oh damnit, I'm awful at this. You must know that I would _never_ \--”

“I know.”

“I won't give you cause to fear me.”

“I know.”

“Nor would I give her cause to fear me.”

“Cullen. Cullen. I believe you.” She laughs. She can't help it. The whole thing has gotten ridiculous. He looks at her. She gives his hand a squeeze, leaning over the table until their foreheads nearly touch. “You are nothing if not thorough – honestly, I know. I know. … and 'her'?”

“Ah.” His ears turn a little red. “Cole. Might have... Forgive me. I'm making presumptions.”

“None I mind,” says Trevelyan. They watch one another for a moment. Then, shy in a way she's never been, she asks: “Will you come with me now, for a little while?”

“Anywhere,” he says.

There is no hesitation.

 

 

'Anywhere' turns out to be her quarters. It is the first time she's convinced him to come there. It's far flung from his offices, his armies, and his official duties. There has always been so little time for diversions from either of those things.

'Cullen is softer,' Cole once said. Trevelyan believes it. He's certainly soft with her now, as she sits on the edge of her bed. A mindful touch on her back that slides down into a careful touch along the curve of her thigh. A courtly kiss on her knuckles that becomes a less courtly one on her neck, over her heart, down to just above her stomach, which has only just begun to curve outwards. With her blouse unbuttoned, its clear enough.

“How did I miss that,” he mutters, mostly to himself. His breath skitters over her leg. He sounds so irritated with himself Trevelyan can't help but laugh.

“It's been awhile,” she says. This much is true. There had been so much to prepare for. Armies to move. Alliances to bolster. Even a stolen kiss on the battlements had been hard to come by.

“It's been too long,” he murmurs. His hand squeezes the back of her leg to emphasize the point, but even this feels careful, restrained.

“We've been busy,” she says.

“Still,” he says, “I--”

“I've been dishonest,” she breathes, and runs her hand back through his hair. It's stiff from the Antivan oils he uses to keep it under control. He shuts his eyes at her touch. “I'm supposed to stand for the truth. And here I was – lying to everyone like some cringing apprentice. I might have--”

A shiver runs through his shoulders. The hand on her leg tightens. “Please don't.”

“... ah,” she says, “I'm trying to apologize.”  
  
“I know,” he says, “Don't.”

Kneeling in front of her, his mouth is hot on her stomach. Trevelyan doesn't say anything more for awhile.

 

 

“You know,” she breathes, with her heart drumming in her ears.”You don't have to be _too_ careful with me.”

She's half on his lap, his hand fumbling between them. The flat of his palm presses against the unfamiliar swell of her lower abdomen, his index and middle finger half crooked inside her. He's been working at her with his mouth and fingers for the better part of an hour, and it's started to drive her a little mad. The pressure is awkward, tentative. It's not unlike their first few nights together, when she'd talked him through it. Then, it'd taken careful murmurs and a considerably less careful roll of her hips, to show him how she wanted him to move. To convince him she'd like it. He could move it more, and harder. One finger, two would be better, yes, that's fine-- She tries at least the part with the hips. He swallows. It's a delicious twitch. She can feel him hot on her stomach, and she misses that even more than she had hours ago, days ago...

“Ah,” he says, “I'm not certain that's--”

“ _I_ am,” she says, she pushes against him until she feels an answering tightness in her throat. The movement rather adds to her point. “When was the last time?”

“In the pension. In Val Royeaux.”

Oh, trust him to take that as a bloody challenge. That damned mission. “And what did you say to me then?”

“Mm.” He presses his nose against the side of her neck. “I believe it was 'That has to be the most dreadful cup of coffee I've ever had.'”

The first time she'd straddled him like this, he'd barely had the breath to say her name. She'd created her own monster.

He continues: “Something about those ridiculous curtains. And how we would need to leave before dawn, if we wanted to make to Skyhold by the week's end.” She moves to thwack his shoulder, but he catches her hand halfway through the movement. All at once, the positions are reversed. She's under him, and it's not fingers pressed against her thigh.

“And that I might be a bit beastly,” he murmurs, against her lips. “But only by your leave.”

“You have it,” she gasps now, as she did then. “But oh, Maker don't keep me waiting any longer.”

 

 

“It's really not much of an issue,” she murmurs, after he's collapsed half on and half off of her, resting most of his weight on his elbow to keep from crushing her. “This. I mean. Until maybe the very end.”

  
“Mmf,” he replies, into her Orlesian sheets. Her hands are still spasming, slightly. She rests one of them between his shoulders, just a ghost of a touch. When the muscles don't tense, she rests her palm more firmly against his back. He manages, with some difficulty, to lift his head. “...and where did you hear _that_?”

“Morrigan,” she says.

That earns her a sour look. “...how knowledgeable of her.”

“Our expert of the arcane,” sighs Trevelyan, “But really, I suppose it was her way of settling things. She forced my hand. She's not a woman who likes debts, I don't think.”

“I don't think she likes much of anything,” mutters Cullen. He rolls until he's on his side, one arm flung over her abdomen. “I'll take it into consideration, but I--”

“Will you tell me we can't do that again?”  
  
“No.”

“Will you tell me I can't fight?” asks Trevelyan.

“No,” he says, more stolidly. Then, in his less professional voice: “But it's not the same thing, is it?”

She rolls to lie facing him. “Of course not,” she smiles. “One's a bit better for your health. I've missed this. I know you don't want to hear an apology from me, but if I ask you not to let me be such an idiot about talking to the people I love, would you hold me to it?”

'Love.' It's not a word that came up too often in the Circle.

That startles a smile out of him. “I might.” His breathe has leveled out. “So long as you don't let me fall asleep here.”

“You need it.”

  
“We're about to go on campaign. Sleep is a luxury an army can't afford.”

She kisses his shoulder. “Sleep is a necessary function, you should do it now and again, and I don't care if you kick off the sheets,” she says, “... and if you're worried what the men think, I'll remind you that in a few months time propriety won't be much of an issue. Unless you think a proposal is in order to satisfy _some_ old fashioned minds.”

Cullen goes silent. She can't quite see his face with her chin on his shoulder, but his ears are suddenly a particular shade of red.  
  


“Cullen,” she says, pulling away. “I'm joking.”

Nothing.

  
“Cullen,” she says, “You weren't actually--”

“No,” he stammers – then more bashfully. “Well. Yes. That is – I'd been thinking of it.”

“Thinking of it,” repeats Trevelyan, as though she may have misheard. “As in before all this....”

She gestures at her stomach, for lack of a more wakeful elegance. He nods.

“I wasn't sure it would be ...appropriate,” he smiles, a little wry, a little rueful. “And if I asked _now_ , it would seem as though I were doing it to save your honor.”

“Cullen,” she says. “You really don't have to worry about that--”

“I know,” he says. “No one in the Inquisition has acted more honorably than you.”

It's Trevelyan's turn to go a deep, speechless red.

“That and the campaign,” he sighs. “Your war, Inquisitor, has taken up quite a bit of my time.”

“Right,” she says.

“But after...” he says. It's a wild thought, he looks a little dizzy at having it. “If there can be an 'after.'”

“After,” she says. “I'd like that.”

And somehow, against all anxiety and strangeness, Commander Cullen grins like a boy. “I've always liked the name 'Leora.''


End file.
